


drunk in love

by ceserabeau



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, F/M, M/M, Speakeasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2345294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek feels his face flame. This is how it is with them: Stiles flirting, Derek getting embarrassed. He can dish it out but he can’t take it, because he knows Stiles doesn’t mean it the way he does, no matter how much Derek wants him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s the middle of summer, the air thick with heat, and the boys are deep in the preserve, sitting in the shade of the pine trees, fat flies buzzing lazily round their heads as the still bubbles and sputters away in the afternoon sun. Scott is dozing in the sunlight, head propped up on his arm; Stiles is throwing his pocket knife at a tree, sending flashes of light dancing around them as the sunlight hits metal.

“Lydia wants another hundred jars by Saturday,” Stiles says as he walks over to the tree again, pulling the blade out carefully. “I said we might not be able to do it.”

Scott glances over at him lazily. “She wants this stuff?” he asks, waving his hand to indicate the still: the huge metal tub; the great coil of wire; the hissing, spluttering mash. “I didn’t think it was exactly a bestseller.”

Stiles laughs; their moonshine is way too awful for Lydia to want a hundred jars. “No, the other stuff. Lydia says they’re going through the whiskey like it’s water. And she wants more of that gin from those guys in Sonoma – says it’s the best she’s tasted.”

Scott nods vaguely. “Sure,” he mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “I’ll give them a call, I guess.”

Stiles wanders over to where Scott is lying and drops down onto the log by his head. “Better do it by tomorrow.” Scott grunts, eyes slipping closed again, and Stiles frowns as he watches the steady rise and fall of Scott’s chest beneath his shirt. “I’m serious, Scott, we don’t have much time to go pick it up.”

“I said I’ll do it,” Scott grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles mutters back. He glances at his watch: nearly four o’clock. “Hey,” he says, and when Scott doesn’t respond, he nudges him with the toe of his boot. “Hey, come on, get up. We’ve got to go.”

“Go where?” Scott moans, trying to roll away, but Stiles kicks at him again.

“We’ve got to make a delivery,” he tells him, nodding his head towards the crates they’ve stashed behind the bushes: watered down beer brewed by some local boys, Canadian whiskey they rowed upriver last night, the bathtub gin they drove speedily across the state line two days ago.

“It can wait,” Scott says, batting at Stiles’ boot.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Peter Hale waits for no man,” he reminds him.

Scott pulls a face, but it gets him to his feet. “Alright then,” he says, moving over to grab one of the crates, “Let’s go. Wouldn’t want you to be late to see Malia.”

Stiles frowns at him. “What are you talking about?”

Scott glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “I think it’s pretty obvious,” he says.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Malia,” Stiles tells him, kicking at the dirt.

“Oh yeah,” Scott says, “I forgot. You’ve only got eyes for Derek.”

Stiles tries to think of something to say, but finds himself at a loss, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he struggles for words. Across the clearing, Scott is waiting expectantly, a smug smile on his face.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks.

Stiles stomps over to him, snatches the crate from his hands. “Oh, shut up,” he says and begins to pick his way towards the car, Scott’s cackling laugh following him through the trees.

-

Derek always gets to The Den early on Thursdays. He parks his Model T right outside what looks like a rundown book store with peeling paint and chipped bricks, but everyone in the neighbourhood knows better. The bell above the door chimes merrily as he enters and nods hello to Greenberg, the strange kid who watches the front of house. Greenberg grins back dopily, and Derek wonders not for the first time where Lydia found him.

He makes his way to the back where a long, dark corridor leads deeper into the store. Off of it are a series of offices: Peter’s, Lydia’s; and at the very end is a door marked ‘storage’ in big letters. From under it comes the faint sound of music, and when Derek pushes it open there are no crates or boxes behind it. Instead it opens onto a balcony overlooking a large room, all dark wood panels and lighting turned way down low. The air is hazy with cigarette smoke and the slow, soothing sound of jazz playing on the gramophone.

The room itself is long, with a stage shaped like a half moon at the far end, with a piano and a big silver microphone on top. In front of it is the dance floor, open and spacious, with enough room for partners to spin round and round and round. The bar runs along one side, lined with stools, bottles and jars of liquor stacked up on shelves behind it. They cast strange shapes that dance around the room where the light hits them. Along the other side are plush leather couches, surrounded by low wooden tables, a few early customers sitting perched on them. Tucked away at the back, hidden in the shadow of the balcony, are a row of booths; empty at the moment, but sure to be full later when the evening gets into full swing.

Erica and Lydia are at the bar, Erica stacking bottles onto the shelves while Lydia does paperwork at the counter. Erica catches sight of Derek as he makes his way down the curved flight of stairs leading to the floor and waves at him.

“Good afternoon,” she calls, smiling brightly. “Didn’t expect to see you here so early.”

Lydia laughs, soft like the jazz echoing around the room. “It’s Thursday, of course he’s here early.”

Derek makes his way over, nudging Lydia a little as he settles on the stool beside her. “It’s a busy day,” he tells her.

Lydia scoffs. “Sure it is,” she says, pen scratching in perfect curls over the page as she signs something. “We have a _delivery_ coming in.”

Erica chuckles, reaching over to pour Derek a glass of whiskey. “Oh, yes, how could I forget!”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells them, and frowns at the way they laugh in unison.

“Darling,” Lydia says, patting his arm, “We all know you’ve got your eye on Stiles. It’s hardly a secret.” And she winks at him.

Derek takes a quick swig of his drink to hide the embarrassment that threatens to colour his cheeks. He’s saved by the door on the balcony swinging open suddenly, slamming against the wall with a loud thud. Peter stands there, a scowl on his face. “What time are those idiots meant to be here?” he calls as he thunders down the stairs.

Lydia glances up from her paperwork, and her gaze is coolly appraising. “They’ll be here at five,” she tells him, pushing back her stool with a loud scrape. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s five o’clock,” Peter tells her with a growl, coming over to stand behind her with one hand over where her hip is hidden under the fabric of her dress. “They’re late.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, turning in Peter’s grip. “They’ll be here,” she says, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You need to calm down.”

“Maybe you should calm me down,” Peter says and wraps his hand around the back of Lydia’s head, dipping down to kiss her, open mouthed and hungry.

Across the bar, Erica pulls a disgusted face. “Want a top up?” she asks, shaking a bottle of whiskey at him.

Derek half-smiles. “I don’t think I can get drunk enough to forget this,” he tells her, waving a hand at where Peter’s tongue is halfway down Lydia’s throat, her hands clutching the collar of his shirt.

Lydia pulls away to level them with an unimpressed look. “Let’s not forget what I’ve witnessed from you,” she says; “From _both_ of you.”

Erica looks vaguely ashamed – and so she should, Derek’s walked in on her and Boyd in more than one compromising position – but Derek just rolls his eyes. “You can hardly talk, Lydia.”

Lydia chuckles. “Maybe you’re just jealous,” she says, winking, and Derek gags a little. She turns back to Peter, says, “There’s a list of shipments over there, some papers you need to sign. By tomorrow, if you please.”

“Of course,” Peter says. “I’ll do it now.”

Lydia nods, slipping out of Peter’s arms to head for the stairs. “Oh,” she says, pausing to tap her hand against Peter’s shoulder, “Your meeting with Chris Argent is on Friday, eleven o’clock. Wear the blue tie.” Then she vanishes in a swirl of red hair and green silk, leaving Derek confused in her wake.

“Chris Argent?” he asks, watching Peter carefully as he sorts through the papers Lydia’s left on the counter.

“Yes,” Peter says, “Chris Argent. Something you want to say about it?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees Erica slowly slide away down the bar, busying herself with tidying the shelves. In front of him, Peter carefully picks up Derek’s whiskey and raises an eyebrow at him expectantly.

“Why are you meeting with him?” Derek asks quietly. “You know what they did.”

“I want to know why they’re here,” Peter tells him, taking a sip.

Derek frowns at him. “You know why they’re here,” he says. “Same as anyone else: the alcohol.”

Peter sighs. “I know _that_. What I mean is, I want to know what they want. What they’re planning. How it’ll affect us.”

Derek slams his hand against the countertop. “They killed our family!” he shouts. “I don’t want them here.”

Peter reacts instantly, grabbing Derek around the throat and slamming him down, back bent awkwardly over the bar. The glass of whiskey shatters on the floor, liquid spraying up the leg of Derek’s pants. Peter snarls viciously in Derek’s face, breath smelling whiskey-sour. Erica glances over at them uneasily.

“I don’t want them here any more than you do,” Peter hisses, face inches from Derek’s. “I would just as easily put bullets in all of their skulls. But I can’t. We don’t need that kind of attention. So the only thing to do is find out what they want and then we can react to it.”

Derek stares into his eyes, and it’s like looking into a black hole, so cold and dark are Peter’s eyes. It’s a look Derek knows well; he’s seen it in the mirror enough times. It’s the look of a man who’s lost nearly everything, who has been suffered and survived, and is still hungry for vengeance.

It must reflect in his own eyes, because Peter loosens his grip enough to let Derek push him away. He reaches out, hands smoothing down Derek’s waistcoat where it’s rucked up, nodding slowly like he know Derek gets it.

“Don’t worry,” he says, patting Derek’s chest. “When the time comes, we’ll do it right. When we’re done, there won’t be a single one of them left.”

And Peter smiles, a twisted vicious thing, made of rage and wrath, full of the promise of violence and retribution, and it makes Derek shiver deep down in his soul.

 -

Nearly a quarter past five and Stiles is racing through Beacon Hills: out of the preserve, through downtown, across the river and up into the hills. His baby, his Model T that he bought second-hand, drives like a dream. The crank sticks and the running board is cracked in two, but he and Scott have outrun many a cop in this car, and when Stiles is behind the wheel it feels like he’s flying.

“Do you think he’ll shoot us?” Scott asks from the passenger seat. “I heard he killed those twins that double crossed him.”

Stiles grimaces; he knows Peter killed those twins because Lydia told him he did, as a warning to not mess up. “It’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for reassuring but knowing he’s missing it by a mile.

They make it to The Den in record time, screeching to a halt outside the bookstore. Stiles is halfway out the car when a door in the tiny alley running alongside the bookstore opens and Erica appears, looking sharp in her usual shirt and trousers.

“You’re late,” she calls to him. “Lydia’s not happy.”

Stiles laughs, opening the backdoor of the car to pull out the first crates. “Lydia’s never happy,” he tells her as she saunters down the alley towards him. “Can you send Boyd and Isaac out to help?”

Erica raises an eyebrow at him. “Ask them yourself,” she says. “I’m not your messenger.”

Stiles pulls a face at her. He’s been on the receiving end of Boyd’s glare and Isaac’s sharp tongue more times than he’d like, and today is already going badly enough. “I’ll just start taking these down,” he tells her and lifts the crates.

He skirts past her, along the alley and through the door, down the narrow flight of steps that leads under the bookstore. At the bottom Stiles pushes through the door carefully into the narrow passage behind the stage, where a dozen more doors open into a dozen more rooms. At the far end is the one he’s looking for: the store room, dark and dusty, stacked to the ceiling with crates on crates of booze.

“Stop staring and start unloading,” a voice says from the depths of the room, and Stiles jumps as Isaac materialises from the gloom.

“You trying to give me a heart attack?” he complains, but Isaac just rolls his eyes.

“You’re late,” he says, taking the top crate from Stiles’ stack.

Stiles sighs, setting the others down on the floor. “So everyone keeps telling me.”

“Peter isn’t impressed,” Isaac warns him; “Or so Erica says.”

Stiles smiles wanly, stomach sinking a little. “It’ll be fine,” he says casually. Isaac just rolls his eyes and shoes him out the door to get the rest of the crates.

It takes them barely ten minutes to unload everything and when they’re done, Stiles goes up to the office to collect their payment while Scott goes to park the car somewhere the drunks can’t puke on it. Upstairs, Peter’s office is the farthest from the door to the main room, and the walk down the dingy corridor fills Stiles with dread like he’s walking to the chair.

He’s raising his hand to knock when the door swings open and he comes face to face with Lydia. She raises a perfect eyebrow at him

“I know, I know,” he says, peering past her into the office, “I’m late.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “It’s not me you have to answer to,” she says, and pulls the door open.

Inside the office is bright, light glinting off the wood panelling and the row of bottles lined up on the sideboard. Peter is sitting at his desk, half-hidden behind a stack of papers and the curved shape of the telephone. He looks up as Stiles enters, and his gaze is dark.

“Stiles,” he says coolly. “Nice of you to show up.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, stepping forward into the light. “It was an accident. I lost track of time.”

Peter snorts. “I know you have a watch, Stiles,” he says casually as he pushes up out of his chair. “Perhaps you should use it next time.”

Stiles cringes. “It’s slow,” he tries. “I’ll wind –”

Peter holds up a hand. “I don’t want excuses,” he says calmly. “I want results.” He takes a couple of steps around the desk, going to the sideboard where he pours himself a glass of whiskey. “I’m sure Lydia’s made you aware of what happens when things don’t go the way I want, hasn’t she?” Stiles nods shakily and Peter smirks at him. “Good. You’re a good driver, one of my best, so if you’re late again I’ll take it out on that partner of yours instead. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, but his voice is thin and fragile so he clears his throat, tries again: “Yeah, we’re clear.”

Peter nods, satisfied. He turns back to his desk and passes Stiles’ an envelope, heavy, stuffed full of bills. “It’s all there,” he says as he watches Stiles flick through it. “You don’t have to count it. Now get out.”

Stiles flees.

He heads back downstairs into the dark corridors under the bookstore. No one seems to be about, so Stiles follows voices until he comes across Scott, standing half in, half out of what serves as a dressing room for the performers, listening to Kira as she practices her scales. Stiles hears the moment she catches sight of Scott in the mirror because her voice breaks off suddenly.

“You’re late,” he hears her say, and sees the way Scott shrugs at her.

“We got caught up,” he says softly, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Didn’t mean to cut it quite so fine.”

Footsteps sound and Kira appears in Stiles’ line of vision. She looks as beautiful as ever, hair falling in curls around her face, and from the way Scott can’t take his eyes off her, Stiles knows he isn’t the only one who thinks so.

“Are you going to stay for the show?” she asks, and Stiles catches sight of Scott’s small smile as he nods. “Good,” Kira says, and she reaches out to touch Scott gently on the arm, “I like singing for you.”

Stiles chokes on a laugh as Scott blushes bright red, stammers out a quick, “Got to go,” and bolts down the corridor in the opposite direction to Stiles, who sidles up to the door to see Kira there, looking dismayed.

“He likes you singing for him too,” he tells her, and watches the way her face goes from dejected to ecstatic in seconds. She presses a sticky kiss to his cheek and goes back to her vanity, face lit up by the bulbs. Stiles winks at her and leaves her to practising, wiping the waxy red mark from his skin as he wanders away.

Out in the main room, there’s more customers milling around, a handful at the bar watching as Derek skilfully mixes drinks. His hands are moving lightning fast as he mixes drink after drink, a smug grin on his face like he knows he has his spectator’s rapt attention. Stiles thinks about going over to watch, but Lydia catches his eye across the room and jerks her head in summons.

“Any word on that gin?” she asks when he makes her way over.

“Scott’s calling them in the morning,” Stiles reassures her. “I’ll let you know what we can get.”

Lydia nods. “Alright. And the whiskey? Where’s that coming from?”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Canada,” he tells her. “They sail their ships down to outside the harbour and we row out to get it.”

“Is it safe?” she asks.

Stiles shrugs. “As safe as anything else,” he says, eyes flicking over to where Derek is laughing loudly, head thrown back to expose the long line of his neck. “Why so many questions, Lyds?”

“Just want to make sure you’re not putting yourselves in harm’s way,” Lydia says innocently, but from the calculating look in her eyes Stiles knows she’s making sure he’s not exposing them to any danger.

“Don’t worry,” he tells her. “We’ll keep our mouths shut if anything happens.”

Lydia smiles. “Glad to hear it. Now, run along,” she commands, and winks at him. “You look like you need a drink.”

-

Derek’s halfway through mixing a cocktail for some flapper half-slumped over the bar when Stiles slides into the seat opposite him with a cheeky grin on his face.

“Hi,” he says, leaning forward to peer at what Derek is doing, “Haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been?”

Derek smiles. “It’s only been a week,” he chides. “Did you miss me that much?”

Stiles laughs, a familiar cackle. “You know it,” he says, and winks.

Derek feels his face flame. This is how it is with them: Stiles flirting, Derek getting embarrassed. He can dish it out but he can’t take it, because he knows Stiles doesn’t mean it the way he does, no matter how much Derek wants him to.

“Give me a sec,” he says to give himself a moment to breathe, turning away to take some money from the girl whose drink he’s just made. When he turns back Stiles is watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Something on your mind?” he asks casually, eyes flicking over Derek’s face.

Derek tries not to flinch. “What can I get you?” he asks instead, desperate to distract him.

Stiles blinks at him but let’s Derek change the topic. “Whatever’s good,” he says, and digs a crisp bill out of his wallet. He slaps it down on the bar and grins. “Surprise me.”

Derek laughs a little. “You sure you want me to do that? You never know what you’ll get.”

“I trust you,” Stiles says.

Derek blinks at him, surprised, but the way Stiles is looking at him, lips curling in a smile, eyes fixed on his, says he’s serious. Something about it makes his heart skip a beat.

He goes for something easy: a Bee’s Knees, with a twist of lemon in the glass the way Stiles likes. He watches Stiles as he does it, leaning on the bar, one hand propping up his head. His hair’s getting long, almost shaggy around his ears, and he looks tired, dark circles marking the delicate skin under his eyes.

“Everything ok?” Derek asks, taking in the way Stiles’ eyes flit from Derek to Erica down the bar to the other patrons reflected in the mirror. They have an almost haunted quality to them, paranoia lurking at the edges.

Stiles nods. “Just been a crazy couple of days.”

Derek turns back towards him, filling a glass with the ice and liquor. “You having trouble with the shipments?”

Stiles tilts his head, scrunching up his nose a little. “Scott and me got chased off last week. He heard a rumour it was Prohibition Agents that have been sniffing around.” He shrugs. “But it could’ve just been the cops trying to look like they’re doing something.”

It sets alarm bells ringing in Derek’s head, and he frowns at Stiles. “There aren’t any cops in this town that would do that. Peter wouldn’t let them get anywhere near this.”

Stiles shrugs again. “Well I can’t explain it otherwise,” he says. His mouth stretches in a long line, tight at the corners. “I’m not a fan of cops.”

“Is anyone?” Derek asks. He puts Stiles’ drink down on the bar, leans forward with an easy grin. “Here, drink this. You’ll forget all about those Prohis.”

Stiles grins back, lopsided, and reaches out for the drink at the same moment Derek pushes it forwards: their hands brush, and Derek inhales sharply when they touch. Stiles’ hands are tanned and tough as leather, and Derek can’t help wondering what they’d feel like on his body. If they’d be rough, scratchy, dragging sharply across his skin; or gentle, the softest touch Derek might ever feel.

Across from him, Stiles’ eyes are wide, mouth parted in a delicate circle. He looks surprised, shocked even, and Derek jerks his hand back suddenly. The moment shatters and Stiles looks away, colour flushing the tops of his cheeks. He grabs the glass and takes a swig, coughing a little as the gin hits the back of his throat.

“It’s good,” he chokes out, taking another sip. It goes down smoother this time. “You always make it just right.”

Derek tries not to blush at the compliment: of course he does, he always pays attention to Stiles. “I try,” he mumbles.

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but out of the corner of his eye, Derek spots Malia sliding through the crowd, eyes searching the faces around her. He sees the moment she catches sight of Stiles, the way her face lights up suddenly. She’s at the bar in a moment, draping herself across Stiles’ back like a cat. From Stiles’ frown, Derek knows he hasn’t been able to keep the annoyance from his face.

Derek tries to smile at them both, but it comes out as more of a grimace. “What can I get you?” he asks Malia instead.

She smiles at him, slightly sly. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says, hand stroking up Stiles’ arm. “How about something fruity?”

Derek feels the muscle in his jaw twitch. “Sure,” he says, and signals to Erica down the bar. “It’ll just be one sec.”

Erica sidles up to him, nudging him with her hip. “What’s she want now?” she asks in a whisper, glancing over her shoulder at where Malia is playing with the short hairs at the nape of Stiles’ neck.

“Something _fruity_ ,” Derek tells her.

Erica rolls her eyes. “I’ll go find her some candy then,” she grumbles.

“Can you make her something?” he asks. She frowns at him. “Please, I can’t deal with her right now.”

Erica sighs, but she reaches over to grab some liquor. It gives Derek a chance to sidle away, disappear down the bar before he can do something stupid like kiss Stiles in front of everyone.

“What’s eating him?” he hears Stiles ask. He doesn’t catch what Erica says in reply, too busy taking orders from the other customers sitting along the bar, waving the bills in his face.

The next time he looks over, both Stiles and Malia are gone. Erica nods in the direction of the dancefloor: there they are, Stiles spinning her in tight circles to the sound of horns, piano, and Kira’s sultry voice. Malia looks ecstatic, throwing her head back and laughing loudly, and when Derek catches sight of Stiles’ face over her shoulder he looks just as happy.

 _Serves me right for wanting him_ , he thinks viciously.

He spends the rest of the night in a rage, angry at himself, at Stiles. It’s stupid, he knows, but he can’t help the way he feels. When Stiles smiles at him, the way his lips curl, the way his eyes light up, his heart starts tapping out a rhythm on his chest. The easy conversation, the laughter, it feels – it feels like nothing he’s ever felt before. No one else has come close to making his pulse race like this, his palms this sweaty: not Kate, not Jennifer, none of the girls he’s ever been with.

The whole thing throws him off his game. He’s sloppy, mixing drinks wrong, giving them to the wrong people. Erica shoots him concerned looks, nudging him every now and then to check he’s still with it.

“Stop thinking about it,” she says as she slides by, hands clenched around the stems of half a dozen champagne glasses.

It’s hard, impossible even, when Stiles is twirling Malia around the dance floor, feet moving tightening fast: a Charleston, a Foxtrot. They look right together, dark heads tilted together, mouths moving as they speak softly. Every now and then, Stiles will catch his eye and smile, and Derek has to look away, embarrassed at being caught.

He doesn’t think Stiles notices, but later, when the crowds have thinned and the music has slowed to a slow, sleepy rhythm, Stiles catches up to him as he’s trying to get to the stairs.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out to snag Derek’s arm. His hand is warm through Derek’s clothes, a band that feels like it’s burning into him. “We good?”

Derek nods at him. “Sure, man. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Stiles frowns at him, like he’s a puzzle to solve. Derek tries not to squirm under his gaze, a little hot under the collar from the intensity of Stiles’ stare. Eventually though Stiles just nods and looks away, eyes flitting over to where Malia is lounging on one of the couches.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “Why wouldn’t we be?” He turns back to Derek and gives him one of those grins, joyful and slightly sloppy, like he’s having the time of his life. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”

Derek smiles, aiming for genuine but it feels too fake. If Stiles notices though, he doesn’t say anything, just nods his head and disappears in Malia’s direction.

Derek’s heart sinks as he watches him walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to end up being so long, I can tell.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s Friday and The Den is heaving, people packed into every available space. Erica and Cora have control of the bar, spinning bottles and glasses as they mix cocktail after cocktail, laughing all the while. Kira’s on stage, voice mixing with the smoky air, enthralling everyone moving on the dance floor. Across the room, Isaac lurks, arms crossed, glower firmly in place as he keeps his eye on the patrons.

Derek’s taking it all in from his perch by the bar, when he sees him: Chris Argent, familiar as ever, a dashing figure in a sharp, grey suit. He cuts through the crowd easily, heading towards the bar, and that’s where Derek catches up with him.

“If you’d like to come with me,” he says, voice pitched low and forceful as he wraps a strong hand around the man’s arm. “Peter’s waiting for you.”

Chris’ head turns sharply and he eyes Derek slyly. “You’re looking well, Derek,” he says, and smiles, all teeth.

Derek takes a deep breath. “Nice to see you too, Chris. It’s been a while.”

“Wasn’t sure you’d still be in town,” Chris says, taking a leisurely sip of his drink, “Especially after what happened.”

Derek feels the anger rise in him, but he tamps down on it by clenching his teeth. “Peter’s waiting,” he says again, and jerks his head towards where Peter is sitting, tucked away in a booth at the very back of the hall. “Come on.”

Chris obliges, pushing off the bar and following Derek through the crowd, weaving amongst the dancers and the drunks until they’re at the table. Peter leans forward as they arrive, his face illuminated by the small lamp overhead, and he smiles amicably. He’s wearing the blue tie.

“Chris,” he says cheerfully, gesturing to the bench opposite him, “Please, sit.”

Chris slides easily into the booth and Derek pulls up a stool to the edge of the table, blocking the table from the rest of the room. He watches the two of them sizing each other up, the tension palpable in the air. After a long minute, Chris chuckles under his breath and raises his glass.

“This is some good liquor,” he says casually. “Where do your suppliers get it?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you,” Peter says with a smile that’s a little too sharp to be friendly. “But they’re very good at their jobs, if you’re looking for one yourself”

“Not quite.” Chris tilts his head to take Peter in. “I more of a seller, myself.”

“Really?” Peter says, seemingly interested except for the way his face is entirely blank. “That’s news.”

Chris smiles at him over his glass. “I’m not sure if you know,” he says, “But Beacon Hills is an important piece of the puzzle.”

Peter leans back into the booth with an amused smile. “Is that right?”

“It is.” Chris points at them with one thin finger. “No one here voted for Prohibition, so we have to keep this town as wet as we can.”

Peter inclines his head in agreement, but his expression is still suspicious. “What exactly are you proposing here, Chris?” he asks.

Chris smiles, obviously glad to be getting to the point. “My family would like to participate in your little business here,” he says, and Peter raises an eyebrow. “We would bring in liquor from our suppliers – good quality stuff, let me tell you – and you sell it here at the bar and to your customers. We then take a cut of the profits. Everyone’s happy.”

Peter’s lips tighten slightly at the corners, and Derek can tell he’s trying his hardest not to laugh. “An interesting idea,” he says carefully, “But we already have suppliers, good ones at that, and they keep the liquor flowing well enough. We don’t need, and I mean no offence, an outsider trying to help us with that.”

Chris straightens in his chair, and the drunken glaze that Derek thought he’d seen vanishes from his eyes. “I’m no outsider, Peter. This is my home.”

Peter chuckles. “You’ve been in New York a long time,” he says. “You don’t know this town as well as you think.”

Chris’ lips twitch like he’s holding back a snarl. “So you’re refusing my offer then?” he asks, and his tone makes Derek slide his hand from the table to where his knife sits deep in his pocket.

“I think I am,” Peter says, apparently oblivious to the sudden tension in the air, and slides out of the booth. “Thanks for coming by, Chris. It was good to see you again.”

Chris’ face says he disagrees entirely, but he nods and pushes himself to his feet. “Thanks for the drink,” he says, and shakes Peter’s hand cordially. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Peter smiles, wolfish. “Yes,” he says, not letting go of Chris’ hand, “I’m sure you will.”

Chris flinches a little at Peter’s grip, but he eventually manages to pull away. He nods at Derek and is about to leave, when his eyes flick upwards and stay focussed on something above their heads. Derek looks over his shoulder to see Lydia leaning over the balcony, the beads on her dress glittering as it catches the light. She looks bewitching, and from the smile she gives them, she knows it too.

“That one’s a beauty,” Chris says, gaze flicking between Lydia and Peter. “She your girl?”

Peter laughs, glancing up at where Lydia is walking along the balcony, hand trailing lazily along the railing. “Lydia’s much too smart to let herself be anyone’s _girl_.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I ask her to dance?” Chris asks, grinning sharp and predatory.

Peter’s smile is equally as dangerous. “The lady does as the lady wants,” he says. “Just watch yourself – she’s meaner than she looks.”

Chris chuckles, disbelieving. “Whatever you say, Peter,” and he begins to make his way through the crowd, headed straight for where Lydia is coming slowly down the stairs.

“I’ll make sure he keeps away from her,” Derek says, moving to follow, but Peter puts a strong hand on his arm.

“Lydia can take care of herself,” he says, but his eyes are dark and angry as he watches Chris kissing Lydia’s hand, leaning in to speak into her ear, their heads tilted together like lovers sharing secrets. He turns to Derek, a vicious smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Come on,” he says, and throws an arm around Derek’s shoulders, “We’ve got work to do.”

 -

Stiles sees Rafael McCall on a Thursday when he’s buying sugar for the still. His car is parked right outside and a familiar figure is leaning against the hood, hat pulled down low, cigarette dangling from long fingers. He thinks for a long second about walking the other day, but McCall spots him before he can turn and waves him over.

“Stilinski,” he greets, taking a drag as Stiles stops in front of him. “It’s been a long time.”

“Sadly not long enough,” Stiles snaps back. “Do you mind? You’re sitting on my car.”

McCall’s eyebrows tick upwards. “This is yours? How did you manage to afford that?”

Stiles glares at him. “None of your damn business.”

He’s about to open the door when McCall grabs hold of the sack in his arms. “What you got there?” he asks, leaning forward to get a better look. “Ah, sugar. Cooking up some moonshine, are we?”

“Nope,” Stiles says innocently, “Just baking a cake.”

McCall’s eyes narrow; at his sides, his fists clench like he’s thinking about hitting Stiles. “Think you can answer some questions without the usual level of sarcasm, Stilinski?”

“Think you can ask them without the usual level of stupid?” Stiles asks through gritted teeth.

McCall pushes himself forward suddenly until he’s looming over Stiles. “Don’t be a smartass, kid. If you’re involved with this shit here, I’m going to find out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles tells him, even as his heart starts to beat double-time in his chest.

McCall rolls his eyes. “The alcohol – moonshine, hooch, mountain dew, whatever you want to call it. Peter Hale and his nephew. The whole outfit.”

Stiles blinks at him, surprised. “Since when are you so interested in that? Looking to get a drink?”

McCall’s hand drops to his waist and he twitches his jacket back to reveal a shiny badge sitting on his hip. “I’m with the Bureau of Prohibition,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just shocked Stiles to the core. “I’m here to investigate the liquor that’s flooding this town. Now what can you tell me about that?”

-

It goes to shit pretty fast after that.

Within days there are Prohibition agents crawling all over town: in the diner, in the grocery store, staking out any and every place they might come across something illegal. Stiles goes up into the woods one evening to find their still in pieces, their stores of jars smashed, metal and glass scattered across the clearing. Out to sea along the three-mile line, a boat gets blown up, the fireball explosion casting an orange glow over where Stiles and Scott are hauling their booze ashore. 

A few weeks later McCall corners Stiles again at the apartment he shares with Scott, leaning in the doorway. He obviously thinks he’s intimidating, the dick.

“Ready to talk yet?” he asks, trying to peer past Stiles down the hallway like he’s expecting to see another still.

“Fuck off,” Stiles tells him. “Seriously, what do you want?”

“I’d like to talk to my son,” McCall says.

Stiles takes a step back. “Stay away from Scott. He doesn’t want to see you.”

McCall smiles insidiously. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Stiles has never hated anyone more than he hates McCall right now. Scott hasn’t seen his dad in close to ten years, not since his mom died of influenza, but sometimes he still dreams about him, wakes yelling out to protect himself from incoming fists and kicks.

Whatever McCall sees on his face makes him hesitate. Slowly he turns and begins to disappear down the corridor, before he pauses at the stairs, turning back towards Stiles.

“I hope Scott’s not involved in whatever you are, Stiles,” he says and his voice is cold. “I’d hate to see him get hurt.”

Stiles sticks a finger up at him and doesn’t think any more about it, not until one night as he’s carefully leading Scott through the dark, racing back over the country line. He’s nearly home, in the home stretch, when in the rear-view headlights appear over the crest of the hill, speeding along the curving road at breakneck speed.

Stiles doesn’t slow, Scott staying as close behind him as he can, but the cars are creeping up on them, headlights growing bigger and bigger by the second. They might be fast, might know the roads like the back of their hands, but that means nothing in the face of superior speed.

He sees the moment they hit Scott, the way he drops back suddenly. Then there’s a noise like metal grinding against each other and in the darkness sparks fly, flickering across the dirt. In the rear-view, Stiles can see Scott’s panicked face, how tight he’s gripping the wheel – and in a second he’s skidding, twisting, flipping once, twice, before the car crashes back down to the earth.

Stiles slams on his brakes, fishtailing across the highway, and the other cars roar right past him, taillights vanishing into the darkness.

“ _Scott_ ,” he’s yelling as he throws himself out the car. “Scott! Scott, _come on_!”

Scott doesn’t answer. Stiles skids to a stop by the wreck of his car, on his knees in the dirt, scrabbling at Scott through the half-open door.

“Come on, man,” he says, shaking his arm, shaking his shoulder. “Scott, please, answer me.”

Scott’s eyes flicker open for a second, glassy, unfocused; his fingers reach out to grab uncoordinated at Stiles’ shoulder.

“What happened?” he says, his words wet and painful to Stiles’ ears.

“You crashed,” Stiles tells him, slipping his hands under Scott’s shoulders to try and drag him from under the metal. “I’m going to get you out, okay? Just don’t go to sleep.”

Scott nods at him; it looks like it hurts. There’s red flecking Scott’s mouth, trickling down his chin, and when Stiles leans down to peer into the hole he can see where Scott’s trapped, wedged tight under the weight of the car. His legs look mangled.

“I’m going to get you out,” Stiles repeats.

Scott half-smiles. “I know you are,” he whispers.

Then his eyes slip closed and Stiles finally lets the scream bubbling up in his throat escape into the night sky.

-

Cora gets shot one morning in February. She’s shutting the door to her building, turning to walk towards where Derek is waiting in the car, when the chatter of gunfire echoes along the street. Derek watches, frozen, as bullets shatter a row of windows, puncture holes into the wall and the doors, before finally tearing into Cora.

She falls slowly, tumbling backwards as red explodes across her dress. She hits the sidewalk in a delicate sprawl, like she’s flopping down onto a bed. The gunfire stops and Derek can suddenly hear his pounding heartbeat as it echoes in his ears.

Cora doesn’t move.

Somewhere, someone is screaming, high-pitched, terrified, but Derek is shocked into silence, staring blankly at his sister’s body on the sidewalk. There’s red pooling around her, trickling over the stones, into the road. The air smells like gunpowder.

Hands touch his shoulders, a voice asking, “Are you okay?”

Derek blinks at the woman leaning over him, her face blurring in and out of his vision. “Fine,” he chokes out. “Who was shooting?”

The woman looks at him like he’s crazy. “Does it matter?” she cries, voice shrill. “We have to call the police.”

Derek pulls out of her grip, peers around the car at Cora. She’s just lying there, helpless. “Which way did they go?” he asks, taking a careful step forward.

The woman grabs his arm. “Are you crazy?” she hisses. “What if they come back?”

Derek shrugs her off. “They won’t,” he says, and gets to his feet.

Two steps and he’s out from behind the car; four steps and he’s falling to his knees beside Cora, hands cradling her face. Her eyes are closed, head lolling in his grip.

“Cora,” he whispers, shaking her. Under his hands her pulse is weak, almost nonexistent. “Come on, Cora, open your eyes.”

In the distance, the sirens begin to wail.

-

The hospital is quiet, doctors and nurses moving on hushed feet. Everything seems too clean: the white uniforms, the shiny floors which squeak beneath Stiles’ shoes. It makes Stiles nervous; he’ll take dirt under his nails over polished perfection any day.

“You don’t have to be here,” Scott tells him on the third day of him visiting. He looks like shit, legs splinted and bandaged, skin a mess of cuts and bruises. “Seriously, man, go away. You’re hovering.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Stiles insists. “What if one of the nurses tries to give you a sponge bath? And I mean one of the ugly ones.”

Scott rolls his eyes. “I’m just going to sleep,” he tells him, waving a hand towards the door. “Come back tomorrow. You can give me a sponge bath then.”

Stiles lets himself be shooed out the room, into the too-quiet corridor. He trails a nurse down the hall, peering into the doorways. No one he knows in the first or the second, but the third room: the door opens to Cora Hale.

Against the white sheet she’s ghostly, frail, paler than Stiles has ever seen her; like she’s already fading away to nothing. By the bed Derek is curled over in a chair, head buried in his hands. The room is deathly still.

“Hey,” Stiles says, and in the silence of the room his voice echoes uncomfortably. “How is she?”

Derek turns to stare at him; his eyes are bloodshot with tiredness, with tears. “What are you doing here?” he croaks out.

“Visiting Scott.” Stiles takes a few careful steps into the room. “How’s Cora?” he asks again.

Derek shrugs. “The surgery went well. The doctor says they have to wait for her to wake up.” His brow furrows. “I have to wait.”

Stiles takes everything in. Derek’s obviously been here for days, curled up in that chair, waiting and waiting. He looks tiny under the bright lights.

He shuffles forward until he’s close enough to put a steady hand on Derek’s shoulder: “Let’s go outside, okay? Get some fresh air.”

Derek looks surprised but he finds his feet, stumbles out into the hallway. Stiles leads him to the stairwell, but when he tries to go down Derek grabs him tight around the arm. He takes steady steps towards Stiles, herding him into the corner. When he’s got him up against the wall, he leans in carefully, hands bracketing Stiles’ head.

Stiles presses his head back against the brick. “You know,” he says, tilting his face to stare up at Derek, “When I said to go outside, I didn’t have this in mind.”

Derek growls, deep in his chest. “Don’t,” he says, and his voice is shaking. “Stiles, don’t – I can’t – not right now, okay?”

Stiles frowns at him, surprised, and his hand comes up to touch the curve of Derek’s arm. “Are you okay?” he asks softly.

“No,” Derek grits out. “No, I’m not okay. I can’t – I just –” He closes his eyes, bows his head until their foreheads are almost touching. “What if she dies? What do I do?”

Stiles’ hand moves of its own accord, sliding up to grip the back of Derek’s neck. “She’s not going to die,” he says in a whisper. “Derek, I promise you – she’s not going to die. She’s a fighter. She’ll come through this.”

“I can’t lose her too. Not after Laura.” Derek takes a deep, steadying breath, and slowly lifts his head to blink at Stiles. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting this on you. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I want to worry, okay? I care about Cora. I care about you. You’re my friends. I don’t like seeing you like this.”

And he doesn’t. This close he can see where Derek’s eyes are dark, hunted. His hands are shaking violently on the wall by Stiles’ head. Even with his suit, his coat wrapped around him like armour he seems small and vulnerable. It hurts so see him look so weak.

Stiles’ hand finds the curve of Derek’s jaw, thumb stroking a gentle line over his cheekbone. It’s easy to lean up, to tilt his head until his mouth meets Derek’s, soft, gentle. Derek’s mouth moves for a moment against his, then he pauses, stills. When Stiles pulls back Derek’s staring at him in shock.

For a second Stiles feels like he’s done something horribly, horribly wrong but then he sees it: a flash of heat, of lust in the depths of his eyes. He hesitates, uncertain if he should run away or lean back in.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says eventually. Derek’s eyes shutter, but Stiles just squeezes the back of his neck to keep his attention. “I mean – not like this. Not here.”

Derek blinks at him, eyes saucer-wide. “You mean – you want this?”

Stiles nods firmly. “Yeah, I do.” God, does he ever. But there’s no time for that, not when Erica’s coming to pick him up. “I’m gonna go, okay, before I do something stupid like get on my knees for you.”

Derek swallows convulsively, but he stutters out an, “Okay,” and backs off enough to let Stiles slip past him.

Stiles heads out into the night. Outside it’s cold and crisp: winter coming on fast. Soon there’ll be frost in the mornings, ice in the pipes. He just hopes it doesn’t snow.

Erica’s meant to be picking him up at the corner so Stiles starts to head in that direction. But halfway down the street he senses something, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He slips a hand into his pocket to wrap his fingers around his pocket knife, holding it tight and ready.

He makes it to the corner before they grab him. He’s a good fighter, fast on his feet and faster with a blade, but there are four of them, huge guys that Stiles recognises from somewhere, and they’re a hell of a lot bigger than he is. He puts up a fight though but when a fist knocks hard into the side of his head, Stiles goes down hard, feels his wrist crunch sickeningly when he puts his hand out to break his fall.

Someone grabs him under the arms, and Stiles tries to fight them off but his head is spinning and he can do little more than bat weakly at the hands lifting him to his feet. They half walk, half drag him to where a car is idling by the curb, and he’s unceremoniously thrown into the back.

He blacks out to the sight of Gerard Argent’s wizened old face staring down at him with a smile.

-

At first Derek isn’t sure what wakes him. But then there’s a noise again, loud and echoing: someone banging on the door, hard knocks that shake it on its hinges. Derek tries to ignore it, tries to slip back into his dreams, but it’s no use; the banging continues.

He heaves a sigh and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling which is lit by the orange glow seeping through the thin curtains. He feels tired, like there’s grit in his eyes; his watch says he’s been asleep two hours.

The banging grows louder, more frenzied, and a voice begins to call out: “Derek? Derek? You in there?”

Derek scrubs a hand over his face and finally gets out of bed. He stalks to the door and opens it, eyeing Erica darkly. “What do you want?” he growls.

Erica stares back at him, wide-eyed and panting, breath coming in short gasps. Her hand, resting against the doorframe, is shaking. She looks terrified. “Thank god,” she says, and pushes past Derek into his apartment. “I thought they’d got you too.”

Derek reaches out for Erica’s arm, turns her around to face him. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

Erica jerks out of his grip, eyes flicking from the window to Derek to the door. “The Argents, man, I think – I went to pick Stiles up but he wasn’t there and –”

Derek grabs Erica tight and gives her a shake. “Slow down,” he says, trying to make his voice calm and steady when his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest. “Tell me what happened.”

Erica slumps against the wall. “I don’t know,” she moans. “I went to the hospital to pick up Stiles but he wasn’t waiting, and Scott, he said Stiles had already left. So I went to look for him and I – all I found was this.”

She holds something out to Derek, tucked in the curve of her palm. A wave of sickness washes over him as he recognises it: Stiles’ pocket knife, the one with the carved handle, the one that belonged to his dad, the one he keeps on him at all times.

Derek considers it for a long moment. “Maybe he dropped it,” he says slowly, but even to his own ears his voice is shaky. “We should check the Den.”

Erica shakes her head. “It’s Sunday,” she says quietly. “We’re closed.”

Derek grabs his coat, his keys: “We check everywhere,” and he hustles Erica out the door.

Stiles isn’t at the Den. Derek sends Erica to look in the back while he checks the office. It’s empty of course, nothing except the stacks of papers and an empty crystal glass that reflects the light in diamonds around the room.

But as Derek is leaving, the phone starts to ring, tinny and high-pitched in the still silence of the room. He looks at it for a long moment, almost confused by it, but eventually strides over to pick up the receiver with a grunt.

“Hello,” a familiar voice says, “Is anyone there?”

Derek chokes, his hand clutching at the sharp edge of the table. “What do you want, Kate?” he growls into the handset.

Kate’s laugh sounds down the line. “Oh, Derek, I was hoping it would be you. How are you doing?”

“I’ve had better days,” he tells her through gritted teeth. “So I don’t have time for games, Kate: what do you want?”

“Well I was just wondering if you’d found your boy yet,” Kate says. “A little birdie told me he’d disappeared on you. I do hope you find him soon.”

Derek snarls, panic washing over him in waves. “What did you do, Kate?” he shouts. “He’s not part of this. You need to leave him alone.”

 “It’s a little late for that, darling,” she says darkly, and if Derek closes his eyes he can see her manic grin.

“If you touch him,” Derek warns her, “I’ll kill you.”

Kate laughs again. Her voice is syrupy sweet when she says, “Don’t you worry, Derek, we’ll take good care of him.”

-

When Stiles wakes up everything hurts.

His lip is split, painful when he touches it with his tongue, and there’s bruising all along his cheekbone, one eye swollen shut. His hands are tied tight to the chair, too tight over what feels like a broken wrist. The worst pain is the back of his head; he knows if he could reach it he’d find blood matted in his hair.

“He’s awake,” a voice says in the distance, echoing in Stiles’ ears.

Stiles glances around. The room he’s in is dim, but he can tell it’s a warehouse from the metal beams stretching up into the darkness above him. He knows exactly where he is, an Argent storage facility by the river which can only mean one thing: He’s in deep shit.

Gerard Argent’s face appears out of the gloom. “Glad to see you’re awake, Stiles,” he says with a smile. “We’re going to have a little chat.”

A panicked laugh gurgles up in Stiles’ throat. He coughs, spits; blood splatters the floor. “What did you take me for?” he asks, testing the strength of his bonds. “You know I don’t know anything, right?”

Gerard raises an eyebrow. “You don’t? That’s funny, because I know you’re Hale’s supplier, his runner. You bring him the booze. And you’re going to tell me where it comes from and where you hide it, and you’re going to do it without complaint.” He leans in close, stale breath wafting across Stiles’ face. “You got that, Stiles?”

Stiles snarls. “Fuck you.”

Gerard hits him, an open hand across the cheek. “You kids, you think you can speak to your elders like that. Now, I’m only going to ask you nicely one more time and then things are going to go badly for you.”

He gestures to where Kate is leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Her grin is vicious and Stiles shivers but raises his chin defiantly nevertheless.

“I’m not going to tell you,” he tells them. “I’m a lot more scared of Peter Hale than I am of you.”

Gerard’s smile is sharp and cruel. “We can change that,” he says. He finally pulls away, staring down at Stiles with a cold expression on his face. “I’m going to leave you here with Kate for a little bit, and when I come back you’re going to tell me what I want to know.”

He spins on his heel and disappears into the dark. Out of the corner of his eye Stiles can see Kate shift, hear the echo of her footsteps on the floor as she comes towards him.

“I’m going to enjoy this, Stiles. I’m going to enjoy this a lot.”

Stiles tries to hold in his flinch as she leans in, but it’s hard when he can see her eyes, the promise of violence that lingers there.

“You know this is stupid, right?” he tries. “Even if I tell you where the booze is, it’s not going to make a difference. McCall – the prohie – he destroyed most of it already. And he’ll just come after you next.”

Kate laughs, sweet and so fake. “Oh sweetie, did you really think Agent McCall was trying to destroy the liquor trade? If that were true, how come we’re still up and running?”

Stiles stares at her. He never considered for a second that the Prohibition agents were only targeting certain people. But now it makes sense: they’re not trying to get rid of all the bootleggers and the rum-runners and the speakeasies, just Peter and his boys so the Argents have free run of the place.

Kate sees the understanding dawn on his face and she laughs again, this time sharp and smug. “Good, you get it now. So this is how it’s going to go, Stiles. I’m going to hurt you but if you tell my father what he wants to hear then maybe I won’t kill you.”

Stiles snorts. “Some incentive that is. You’ll probably kill me anyway.”

Kate just shrugs. “I might; I might not.” Her hand strays to her hip, fingers tapping the butt of her gun. “But I am going to hurt you, real bad, and when Derek comes for you – because he will – I’m going to let him see your broken little body before I kill _him_.”

Stiles snarls at her. “Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “Leave him alone.”

Kate coos. “That’s what he said about you. How sweet.” She reaches out to touch Stiles’ face, push his hair back. “It’s going to break him, you know. He’s in love with you.”

Stiles shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells her coolly.

Kate scoffs. “Come on, Stiles, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He used to look at me like that once.”

“So this is about me stealing your boyfriend, huh?” Stiles can’t help his incredulous laugh. “That’s pathetic, Kate, I mean really –”

The first punch she lands on his jaw steals his breath. The second breaks the bone with a crack. The third knocks Stiles backwards off the chair and into unconsciousness.

-

There’s a phone ringing somewhere, echoing, ringing too loud in Derek’s ears.

“Will someone answer that?” he snaps, hand waving in the direction of the dark alcove behind the bar where the phone is tucked away out of sight.

The ringing stops and Derek feels like he can breathe again. Along the bar, Lydia and Peter are peering at maps, stacks of paper, faces scrunched up as they pour over them. Erica’s carefully mixing their drinks, but her hands are shaking on the glasses, bottles clanking when she sets them down.

“Derek,” Isaac’s voice says from the corner, “It’s for you.”

Erica goes stock-still behind the bar, but neither Peter nor Lydia look up from what they’re doing. Derek carefully pushes to his feet, takes cautious steps towards the phone.

“Who is it?” he asks.

Isaac just shrugs. “She wouldn’t say.”

“She?”

Isaac nods. “Female voice. Not one I recognise.”

“Okay. Thanks.” He takes the receiver from Isaac’s outstretched hand, puts it to his ear. “Who’s this?”

There’s a shuffling sound, someone coughing, then a voice asks. “Is this Derek?”

Derek frowns at the receiver. “Who are you? I swear to God, Kate, if that’s you – ”

“No,” the woman says. “My name’s Allison.”

“Allison? Allison Argent?” There’s no answer from the other and Derek snarls down the line. “What could you possible want? Calling to rub it in?”

Allison makes a distraught noise. “ _No_. I’m not, I swear. I – I’m not a part of it, okay? What they’re doing to you. I don’t agree with it.”

“Then why are you calling me?” Derek asks with a snarl.

“I know where Stiles is.”

Derek’s heart stops. He hates how small and weak his voice sounds when he asks, “Where?”

“My grandfather owns a warehouse by the river. Number two-three-two. He’ll be there.” Allison pauses, takes a deep breath. “You need to hurry, Derek. I don’t know what they’re going to do to him but it won’t be good.”

Derek takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. “Why are you telling me this?”

There’s a long pause before Allison says slowly, “Because I owe Scott a favour. And this is the only way I can repay him.”

Before Derek can ask what she means the tone sounds; she’s gone.

-

The drive to the warehouse is silent, Isaac at the wheel with Peter next to him, Derek and Boyd crammed into the back of the car. The only sound is the faint snick of bullets sliding into rifles, cartridges snapping into machine guns.

In front of them the docks loom; somewhere out there are the Argents and Stiles. The car rolls to a stop and Derek shivers, a familiar tension settling under his skin. This is something he knows how to do: this is war.

Peter turns in his seat. “Do we all know the plan?” Nods all round, and he turns back, satisfied. “Good. Isaac, Boyd – go get in position. Derek, with me.”

Isaac and Boyd disappear into the darkness with the guns, and Derek trails Peter between the warehouses, shivering in the cold air. He tracks the numbers on the buildings, watching them climb higher, until they round a corner and the right one looms above them, a monstrous shape against the night sky.

Gerard Argent looks up at the sound of their footsteps, and his mouth curls into a dark smile. Derek looks past him to where Kate is lounging carelessly against the wall, cigarette dancing from her mouth like she doesn’t have a care in the world; he thinks viciously, I should’ve shot you when I had the chance.

“Gerard,” Peter calls across the space. “Kate. Nice night.

Gerard steps forwards, and in the light Derek can see where his hair has finally gone grey, the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced. “I was wondering if you’d find us,” he replies. “Glad you could make it.”

Peter’s smile is a twisted thing. “Well, we had some help. From your granddaughter actually.”

If looks could kill, they’d both be dead right now from the force of Gerard’s glare. As it is, his hand strays dangerously towards the gun tucked in the holster under his jacket. He turns to glance across at Kate, who’s watching them with a blank expression.

“Don’t worry,” she calls to him. “I’ll deal with her later.” And she smiles, all teeth.

Derek spends a second fearing for Allison’s safety, before he remembers: this ends tonight. There’s going to be no one left to go after her.

Across the lot, Gerard watches them smugly. “You know I wish it didn’t have to come for this,” he says, although he sounds anything but apologetic. “You’ve done so well to rebuild your business, Peter. It’s a shame it’s got to go.”

“Does it?” Peter shoves his hands deep into his pockets, eyes narrow as he stares at Gerard. “You really think you can do this? Attack my people, push me out?”

Gerard laughs. “I already have, Peter. There’s nothing you can do about it now. You’re _finished_.” He smiles, in what Derek imagines he probably thinks is a benevolent way. “But if you’re man enough to admit it, then maybe I can give you time to get out of town. Why not head down to Los Angeles – I hear they need some moonshine down there.”

“An interesting thought,” Peter says, entirely disinterested. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Gerard opens his mouth again, but Kate’s the one that speaks, pushing off the wall so stride towards them, her jacket open so Derek can see the gun at her hip.

“You probably want to see your boy,” she says coyly, coming to stand at Gerard’s side. “I’ve really enjoyed getting to know him, Derek. What a smart little mouth he’s got. I had a great time beating him for it.”

Derek feels his mouth twist in a snarl but out of the corner of his eye he sees Peter shake his head minutely: _wait, not yet_.

“If you don’t mind,” Peter says coolly, “We’ll take Stiles and be on our way. No point in dragging this out longer than we have to.”

It makes Gerard laugh. “I’m afraid you’re not leaving here with Stiles. In fact, none of you are leaving here tonight.”

There’s the ominous sound of a dozen rifles being cocked, and out of the shadows steps Argent’s men, the dark barrels of their guns all pointed at the two of them.

“What a shame,” Peter says, smiling regretfully. “I really hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this.” Then he inclines his head an inch and the world explodes into a cacophony of noise and sound.

-

The warehouse door breaks down with a bang, and Stiles tries not to flinch away. He prays desperately that it’s not Kate coming back. He doesn’t know how many more of her beatings he can take.

Footsteps approach and Stiles squints, trying to see through the dark and the swelling around his eyes. He can make out two shapes moving towards him, one large, the other slim. It’s only when they get close that he recognises them.

Isaac pauses in front of Stiles, staring at him. “Jesus, Stilinski, what the hell did you do?”

Stiles glares at him. “This isn’t _my_ fault.” He sighs, struggling at the ropes again. “Just get me out of here.”

Boyd’s the one who unties him, slips an arm under him to help him up. “Come on,” he says, leading Stiles carefully to the door. “Just to warn you, it’s not pretty out there.”

Outside is eerily quiet, but Stiles can smell the sharp scent of gunpowder in the air. There are bodies everywhere, all Argents men, blood smeared across the concrete. And standing over them, tall and proud, are Peter and Derek, faces lit by the moon.

Derek glances at Stiles for a second when Boyd carries him out, but his gaze is drawn back to the bodies at his feet: Gerard, somehow still alive, curled around Kate, whose eyes stare lifelessly at Stiles across the concrete.

“Stiles,” Peter calls to him, “Glad to see your still alive.” He nods at Boyd and Isaac. “Take him to the car, will you? We’re not done here.”

Boyd tries to lead him away, but Stiles digs his heels in. He wants to see this.

“What are you going to do?” Gerard is saying, voice choked and rough. “You can’t kill me, Peter. You’ll have the whole Prohibition Bureau down on your head.”

Peter just laughs. “Over you? You’re just another dead bootlegger to them, Gerard.”

Gerard’s face twists in anger. “I should’ve killed you too,” he shouts, “Like I killed your family. I should’ve made sure you were all in that house when it went up in flames.”

Derek has his gun out in an instant, aimed straight at Gerard’s head. His chest is heaving, eyes dark and angry, but his hand is steady around the gun.

“Derek,” Peter says slowly, “Give me the gun.”

Derek just shakes his head. “You can’t let him get away with it any more – you can’t, Peter. You _promised_.”

“I know,” Peter says, and his hand comes up to grip the barrel. “I’m going to make good on that promise, Derek. But I can’t let you be the one to do this.”

Derek frowns at him but his grips is weakening and slowly Peter pulls the gun from him. “What are you going to do?” he asks quietly.

Peter’s mouth stretches into something cruel and quietly vicious. “I’m going to end it,” he tells him, and turns to carefully aim the gun. Gerard stares up at him, eyes wide and surprised. “For both of us.”

When he pulls the trigger, the sound is deafening.

-

Friday afternoon and they’re getting ready for another busy evening. On stage Kira is warming up, the smooth sound of her voice ringing out over the clink of glasses and bottles as Erica organises them behind the bar.

Derek’s wiping down tables, grumbling over the sticky surfaces, when a familiar voice behind him says, “Hey.”

He turns: it’s Stiles, hands shoved deep into his pockets, a sheepish look on his face. He looks good, healthy; the wounds have healed, the bruising faded to nothing.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, suddenly nervous at seeing Stiles again.

“I –” Stiles flinches, eyes falling to the floor. “Well, I thought, you know –”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says and his tone is exasperated, fond. “I meant why are you here so early?”

“Oh.” Stiles is blushing now and it makes Derek’s heart swell a little, knowing that he put it there. “I haven’t seen you since, well, you know. I wanted to see if you were okay.”

Derek snorts. “If _I’m_ okay? More like are you okay.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I do worry about you.” At Stiles’ frown, Derek finally steps forward. “God, Stiles, I do. When Kate took you, I thought – I thought you were dead. I thought she was going to kill you.”

Stiles smiles but it’s lopsided and shaky. “She was.”

It sounds like he’s trying to joke about, but Derek can see the flash of fear in Stiles’ eyes, feels it echoed on his own. It was his fault after all that Stiles was taken, that the Argents went after him.

Stiles must see it on his face; he reaches out to put his hands on Derek’s face. “Hey, _no_ , don’t do that. It’s okay – I’m okay.”

Derek feels himself take a shuddering breath. “You nearly died,” he whispers, leaning forward to touch his forehead to Stiles’. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had.”

Stiles smiles sweetly up at him. “But I didn’t. I’m here, safe, and they’re all six feet under. No one’s going to hurt me now.”

“I was so scared,” Derek tells him quietly. “Don’t ever do that again, okay?”

Stiles laughs against his mouth. Okay, he says, and finally, _finally_ leans up to kiss him.


End file.
